"You had it last time," said Dimanche. "A three dimensional encephalocurve. A time modulated brainwave. If you had bet right, you could have owned the house by now."
"I did? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you had it three successive times. The probabilities against that are astronomical. I've got to find out what's happening before you start betting recklessly."
"It's not the dealer," declared Cassal. "Look at those hands."
They were huge hands, more suitable, seemingly, for crushing the life from some alien beast than the delicate manipulation of cards. Cassal continued to play, betting brilliantly by the only standard that mattered: he won.
One player dropped out and was replaced by a recruit from the surrounding crowd. Cassal ordered a drink. The waiter was placing it in his hand when Dimanche made a discovery.
"I've got it!"
A shout from Dimanche was roughly equivalent to a noiseless kick in the head. Cassal dropped the drink. The player next to him scowled but said nothing. The dealer blinked and went on dealing.
"What have you got?" asked Cassal, wiping up the mess and trying to keep track of the cards.